


A Place We Can't Pronounce

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Beth Lives, Body Worship, F/M, Nipple Play, One Shot, Porn with Feelings, Self Confidence Issues, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 02:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6547873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth is self conscious about her small breasts. Daryl makes sure she knows exactly how he feels about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place We Can't Pronounce

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely anon who inspired this story. I hope it makes you smile.
> 
> Title from "Perfect" by One Direction.

The night they come together is cool and moonlit and they leave the window open despite the chill on the air, use it as an excuse to heap the blankets high, tangle up in each other when it's all over. They didn't plan this, any of it; but the run had been rough, rough enough that Daryl retreated directly to his attic bedroom after showering, didn't stay for the debriefing or the planning that came after. They'd lost someone on this run—an Alexandrian, and so not one of them, not family; but the longer she is here the more she sees the lines begin to shift. She imagines if it had been Aaron, or Eric, and she doesn't imagine beyond that—because beyond that lie the people in these two houses, who she would mourn so much if she lost.

They hadn't planned it, and the whole walk across the street—feeling ridiculous in her long sleep-shirt almost down to her knees, the boxers hidden beneath, and her boots on her feet to protect against the pitted pavement—there were no thoughts of it in Beth's mind. The only thing she saw was the look on Daryl's face as he came in through the gates; the way he didn't resist when she took his pack from him, barely glanced at her as he abandoned the cries rising behind him and headed for home. She doesn't like that. She doesn't like to see him like that, closed down and hurting. So she came to his door in her knee-length sleep shirt and realized after the second knock that she had no idea what to say and when he answered the door with a red nose and bags beneath his eyes she didn't pause before rising on her toes and kissing him.

And now they're here: Beth's eyes drifting open, confused at the unfamiliar environment until she registers the head lying heavy on her clavicle the legs tangled up in hers beneath the sheets. By the angle of the moon she guesses it's been a few hours since she fell asleep, pillowed on the rise and fall of Daryl's chest; she doesn't know when they switched positions, but she finds she likes this just as much, the weight of him pressing her to the bed.

The breeze whispers in through the open window and Beth realizes that save Daryl's head on her chest, she's bare from the waist up, the blankets pulled down to rest around her belly button. She remembers falling asleep covered up to the chin, and she must make some noise of confusion because she feels Daryl's lips press against her collarbone, thin and chapped and scratchy with the scruff around his mouth.

“Daryl?” she says, the familiar word slurred by sleep, and he kisses her again, and she realizes that the warmth that's settled across her stomach is his hand, calluses rough on her hypersensitive skin. “Pull the covers up, it's cold.”

“Shh,” he says, and before her sleep-logged brain can fully comprehend that he's practically just shushed her, she feels his hand move up, his index finger sliding over the barely-there bump of her breast tissue to touch her nipple. She jumps a little, and peers past his mat of hair to see the two of them; his skin so much darker than hers where he's curled against her side, almost melting into the shadows that the moonlight can't breach. It looks like an extension of shadow has swallowed her up where his hand rests on her skin; another breeze comes in through the window, and she shivers again, and Daryl gasps softly, finger trembling against her. The cold has twisted her nipples so tight it's almost painful, and she can see them sticking straight up from her chest like the Tor Beth saw when her family visited Glastonbury.

“Daryl,” she says, suddenly anxious. “What are you doing?”

He pokes her nipple again, then follows its shape with the lightest of touches; traces her like he's checking an arrowhead for sharpness and _looking_ at her, she realizes; she can't see his eyes but she knows they're open, and much keener in the dark than hers, and he's looking at himself touch her chest.

“Daryl,” she says again. “What are you doing?”

“Just lookin'.”

She doesn't think she's ever heard this tone in his voice before; drifting, almost dreamy, like someone else is speaking through him. She feels her nipples pucker up even tighter, and his breath rolling across her chilled flesh has her shivering again.

“Don't,” she says, the word coming out breathier than she wants when she feels his finger rest on the tip of her nipple; roll gently, send little sparks of pleasure through her. “Daryl, it's cold.”

“Just wanna look.”

“Why?”

“Never seen tits so small before.”

Beth feels a familiar, sickening embarrassment curl through her stomach; she reaches for the sheet only for Daryl to take her hand and push it away.

“No,” he says, “lemme look.”

Beth struggles a little, trying to turn on her side away from him but stopped once again by his hand. Tears prick her eyes as she fights him. “Daryl, just–“

Her struggles cease as he raises his head; looks at her through his bangs, eyes two dark slits behind his mop of hair.

“Wha's wrong?” he asks. Even in the dark, she can see his face crease with worry as he examines her. “Beth?”

“I know they're small, ok,” she says, finally fighting past his hand and tugging the sheet up, hiding her body from view. “Don't make fun of me.”

He doesn't say a word; looks at her with those unfathomable eyes of his, made even more obfuscated by the darkness around them. It isn't too dark, though, to see his frown, the aborted movement to pull the sheet back down before settling his hand once more on her stomach.

“I ain't, Beth. I ain't. Why the hell would you think that?”

Beth raises her eyebrows, feels tears pricking her eyes again. She should have known, no matter how perfect it felt in his arms, pressed to the mattress with him inside her, breathing his air, simply _being_ with him, that it wouldn't last. That these past months apart she's built him up to more than he is; that they're too different, too changed to make sense together, after all she's done...

His large hand settles on her face, holding her from looking away from him while his thumb wipes beneath her eyes. He freezes at the wetness he finds there, loses enough muscle tension that Beth is able to turn away.

“I should go–“

“Beth.”

“I'll see you later–“

“Beth!”

She freezes, both under his tone and his grip on her arm. It isn't bruising; she could break free if she wanted to, although she knows he has the strength to keep her here. But that isn't who he is, she reminds herself. She wouldn't be here if that's who he was.

She lies still, his torso half pressed across hers, holding her down more with his presence than any physical force. His face is close enough to form a curtain around both their faces, and the smell of him makes Beth want to cry again.

“I ain't,” he whispers. “Beth, you're... you're fucking perfect.” She can feel it in him; that frantic pressure as he looks for the words, brings them out. “Your tits are... you're perfect.”

“You think that?” she whispers.

He doesn't say anything; just nods, the tips of his hair tickling her face. “I didn't know... fuck, Beth I wouldn't have said nothing, I didn't know, you're just...” He's breathing hard, almost like he'd just finished fucking her again. “I just... I just wanted to look at you.”

“Why?” Beth whispers.

She almost thinks she can make out incredulity in his eyes before he squeezes her tight; wraps his arms around her torso, ducks his head into her neck, holds onto her like she'd held him so long ago—fiercely.

Hesitantly, she brings her arms around him too; feels the broadness of his back, the freshly washed strands of his hair, still retaining some dampness from his shower; and it's so strange to feel it like that. The few times she'd touched his hair before, he'd been filthy; both of them were filthy, but it didn't stop them from touching each other like they weren't; Daryl brushing against her shoulder blades or tugging her ponytail or settling his head in her lap one night on the trail, without thought or preamble, laying himself across her thighs and sighing in contentment when she buried her hand in his greasy hair. She didn't know what else to do with the trust, the gift he was giving her; the little she knew about Daryl Dixon before the prison fell precluded such gestures. And yet there he was, exhausted from a day's march and resting his head in her lap like they had been doing it for years, trusting her to keep them safe as he slept.

That was a long time ago now—miles and states and lifetimes away—but she still remembers how it felt to touch him that night; both ephemeral and vanishing and the most real thing she had ever felt in her life, and that was the first time she wondered what it would feel like to wake up in his arms. Once. Just once. Or maybe not once. Maybe every day, when they found their place. She didn't think beyond that; didn't think of how they were dressed or what they'd spent the night doing—just the thought of waking up with him. Coming out of the unconscious and finding him there, warm and safe.

And isn't that what just happened? And isn't that maybe what he's been wanting too?

She tightens her arms around him as she feels hot wetness on her neck—she doesn't think she's ever seen a man cry as much as she's seen Daryl cry, and she knows that's just as much a privilege as being allowed to run her hands across the scars on his back—and kisses what skin she can reach; tastes the sweet saltiness of him as he sighs out heavily, exhaling like it's a breath he'd been holding for years before pulling up and away from her.

She catches his arms before he moves too far away, but she doesn't think he ever planned to; stops just far enough that she can see him again, see the unashamed tears sparkling across his cheeks. She raises her hand and wipes them away like he had wiped hers, and he leans into her touch every moment.

“You're perfect,” he says again.

Beth shakes her head, still running her fingers across his face. “I don't know what that means.”

Daryl huffs out a laugh. “You want _me_ to explain it?”

Beth smiles with him, reaching up to give him a peck on the lips. “You can try.”

Daryl hesitates, licking his lips where she had just touched them.

“Let me see you.”

And all the contentment Beth found in the moments before vanishes again. She didn't think about it last night. There wasn't time to worry about her body when it was pressed against his, when her only impulse was to find a way to make as much of their skin connect as possible. She's never been so lost in sex before; never forgotten her tiny chest or her flat ass or the bush that she hasn't trimmed since she first arrived at Alexandria and scoured her body clean; never made the _noises_ she made, dear lord, she hopes these walls are thicker than the ones in Maggie's house. The few times she's had sex before—some fumbles with Jimmy in the hayloft and hurried trysts with Zach—her head was always so filled with worry. Were they thinking of other women as they fucked her—women with bigger chests and a real dip to the waist, a better kisser or someone who got wetter or someone—

But she's never been as wet as she was tonight. Never. She didn't realize she was wet with the thought of just coming to his door until she guided his hand between her legs and felt it gushing over their fingers. And when he put his hand on her breast, emboldened enough not to need guidance, he squeezed and kissed her like she'd always wanted to be kissed—his rough calluses rasping over her nipple while his tongue worked clumsily against and inside her mouth, not knowing quite what to do but knowing that he wanted it, wanted her. And she wanted him. Because she is attracted to him, yes—she doesn't know many people who aren't—but also because she didn't hesitate to rise on her tip-toes and kiss him when he opened the door. Because her shirt came off and her boxers came off and she still doesn't know where they are, she cared so little. It didn't matter what he thought of her. Being with him. Being with him was enough.

But now, the moonlight streaming through the window and illuminating her flat chest as Daryl pulls down the sheet and resettles at her side—now she's thinking. Of what Marcia Hollis said in ninth grade, how she'd never get a man without at least a handful; of the men in town who'd call her “tiny titties” as she walked by, trying to ignore them, grateful at least that they saved their comments for when she was alone and they wouldn't start a fight. She remembers going to the diner on dates with Jimmy and watching him ogle the waitress's cleavage as if his own girlfriend weren’t seated across the table. She remembers all the changing rooms she shared with Maggie, all the bras they bought together, how Maggie looked at herself so easily while Beth made sure of the fit and was done with it.

But the sheet is down and she's bare and Daryl's hand is on her stomach again and the air is chilled and painful. She can't watch his face so she watches his hand, inching up once again, stroke the underside of her meager breast and making her heart quicken. No matter how small she is, it still feels _good_ —and it's with both embarrassment and arousal that she watches his hand come up and cover her nipple, practically swallowing her breast whole.

She can't help the little whimper she makes, and Daryl seems to take it as encouragement; he moves his hand to the breast farther from him, holding her gently as he leans down like he's tracking footprints on the forest floor; his breathing is heavy too and she feels it against her ribcage, the shock of it in the cold air of the room. He's staring at her nipple— _staring_ , and Beth fights the urge to hide herself because when this man stares it's like a laser beam shooting from his eyes—and in a small, barely-there movement, nudges it with his nose. Gently, like he's a dog examining a new-born kitten. He glances up at her and their eyes meet for a moment and then he's kissing her on her areola, just below her nipple, and her breath comes out in one long gush.

“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to sound composed.

He shrugs, kissing her again a millimeter to the right, his other hand moving so he can pass his fingers across her nipple instead of feeling it in his palm.

“Just want to,” he says. His fingers drift down so there's only his index finger and thumb. He rolls her between them and kisses her again and she can't help the way her back arches, even though it makes her breast tissue look nonexistent. Daryl is breathing heavily through his nose, and he pulls his head back just far enough that he can lick her—from her areola up the side of her nipple and Beth is grasping the sheets now, eyes sliding shut.

“Daryl,” she whispers.

“What'd you want?” he asks in the same tone, licking her again, little kitten licks that leave his tongue dancing on the tip of her nipple, lingering like it doesn't want to leave.

Beth spreads her legs beneath the blanket, hooking one knee over his hip and arching again when he squeezes her nipple harder than before.

“I wanna come, Daryl,” she whispers, and she swears a shiver goes through his entire body.

“Fuck,” he whispers, teasing her more, making her skin wet and shiny with his ministrations. He squeezes her other nipple a few more times, rubbing his thumb over it and making her shiver, before palming the breast and running his hand down her body and without preamble sliding his fingers between her soaking lips.

“Oh Daryl,” Beth whispers as he passes up and down her cunt, just rubbing it, getting her on his fingers as his licks get more like laps, dragging his whole tongue across her in one exquisite slide. She opens her legs still farther and feels something hard bump her thigh. Daryl's whole body jerks like it wants to press into it but when Beth brings her hand down to grasp him he stops her. Beth looks at him, wide eyed. “Daryl, I wanna–“

“No,” he says, with a force that takes her breath away. He turns his body, drawing his dick between himself and the mattress and swallowing at the contact; but he doesn't look away from her. “Sweetheart, this is for you.”

“Oh,” she breathes, and again, “Ohhh,” when his directionless hand in her cunt finds what it's looking for. He's still a bit clumsy as he draws the hood back, fumbles to get his thumb pressed against her, but every move sends shock waves through Beth's system, sends her nipples tingling as his breath washes over them again and there's only a moment of reprieve before his mouth is sealing over her chest and sucking hard.

She doesn't know when her hand finds the back of his head but she knows she isn't moving it; not when he rumbles deep inside at the contact, sending vibrations through her nipple as he licks and nips it raw. He's making little growling noises in the back of his throat, small, bursting, like he isn't even aware of them, and Beth finds her breath catching at each one; he sucks on her nipple like she's seen him suck food from his fingers, good food, the kind they had at the prison when someone found cake mix on a run. Daryl would eat with his hands, always with his hands; Beth didn't make a practice of watching him but even with Zach's arm around her shoulders she noticed the way Daryl sucked the frosting off his fingers one by one.

She whines when he catches her nipple in his teeth and pulls up until it releases, her chest jiggling a little and her nipple—god, it's _glowing_ , slick with his saliva and pulsing with her heartbeat and twice the size of the other one. Daryl stares at his work, hand slowed to an idle crawl between her legs, and she can only take a few seconds of it before she's pulling on him with her leg over his hip, her fingers in his hair.

“Lemme finish, god, Daryl, I'm so–“

And he doesn't even look her in the eyes when he brings his hand up from her cunt and spreads her own juices across her left breast.

“Oh,” Beth breathes, as he moves across her, the nipple he'd been sucking aching deliciously when his shoulder presses against it and he licks–

He licks her cunt juices off her breast like frosting before returning his thumb to her clit and settling in to suck on that nipple too.

It isn't long before she comes—comes with her back arched and hand fisted in his hair in a way that must be so painful, but as she keeps coming and he doesn't stop she has the fleeting thought that she'll rip every hair out of his head if he stops now.

And then finally it's too much. Too much to feel, too much electricity under her skin, rivulets of it, enough to power this entire safe zone until the dead die out and the world is safe again—and when she signals to Daryl, tugging his hair weakly in the other direction and pulling her thighs together a little, he backs off without hesitation; gives her one last lick, like a child with a lollypop, before pulling his hand from between her legs and sucking on his fingers one by one.

She stares at him, eyes wide and unblinking, chest heaving, for several long seconds before he looks her way, pauses halfway up his ring finger. He pulls the finger from his mouth, frowning at her expression.

“What?” he asks.

Beth gives a short laugh, and pulls him in for a kiss—and she can taste herself, lord, and she has to admit it really isn't that bad—and by the time she's done her body is tingling again, but she decides to let it lie. Collapses back against the pillows instead, still breathing heavily, throwing an arm across her forehead as she struggles to calm her heart-rate.

“Beth,” Daryl says, tugging at her arm until she opens her eyes and looks down at him. “Look.”

And she looks. Sees her nipples puffier than they've ever been, bright red and shimmering. She breathes in, and she can feel the skin pull across their capped points.

Before she can think she finds herself cupping one of her breasts, brushing a thumb across the throbbing tip.

Daryl kisses the back of her hand, pulls himself up so he can share the pillow, curl around her and rest his wrist against hers; touch her together, nudging at her nipple between them as idly as she might tuck her hair behind her ear.

“See,” he says in her ear, the sudden rush of heat making her shiver. He leans his temple against hers, looks down their bodies together. He pulled the blanket up when he moved but she can feel the heat of his dick against her thigh again; knows she wants to take care of that, and soon. But for now—she likes this. She likes it.

“See what?” she asks as his hand comes to cover hers, draw it down to just below where the minuscule slope of her breast begins.

He kisses her cheek, squeezes her hand. Outside the window a blue bird begins to chirp, and the air across their bodies makes them shiver together, move closer, tilt into each other. She waits for him to answer.

When he says the word, she smiles.

“Perfect.”

 


End file.
